


Everyday is a Battle I Face

by lokiarrty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies, Angst, Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokiarrty/pseuds/lokiarrty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You cannot barter with death unless you pay a price, and John now knew, without a doubt, that he was paying it."</p><p>John has the ability to bring the dead back to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyday is a Battle I Face

**Author's Note:**

> Concept is from the show "Pushing Daisies." Keep in mind any changes to John's ability to bring the dead back are made so to fit the story and BBC Sherlock characters. 
> 
> Title is from Foster the People's song, I Would do Anything for You.
> 
> Enjoy

The first time John noticed his curse, he was five years old.

He had found a small bird in the back yard that wasn’t moving. Being the curious little boy that he was he decided to investigate. He watched the bird intensely for any sign of movement, but it showed none. He knew what death was. He had learned that concept when the family dog passed away, and he knew that just as his dog had went into his last slumber, so had this bird. He ran into the house for something he could use to shovel the dirt and make a grave for the bird and found a large metal spoon. He went back into the yard and dug a small hole. Once he deemed it large enough he went to scoop the small bird into his hands but as soon as his finger pressed against the underside of the bird’s right wing, it sprung to life. It jumped up onto its feet and startled John back until he fell onto his butt in shock. He watched the bird, which had been still and stone like, hop around the garden. He watched it in awe and amazement. That bird had been dead. There was no way it could be alive. He didn’t know how it could be moving now. How was it alive? Did he have something to do with this? The bird flew into the air and away. He watched the bird fly away from him and before he saw it for the last time he saw another bird fall from the sky and plummet to the ground. He wanted to find where that bird fell but his mother came over and brought him back into the house, yelling at him for using her cooking utensils for gardening.

The first time John learned about his curse, he was ten years old.

His grandmother had passed away during the night and his mother had found her lying in her bed. His grandmother during the last year had moved in with them because she was sick and needed to be looked after constantly. His mother, being a stay at home mom took on the job. He was in bed when he heard his mother shriek a sobbing cry and he sprung from bed to her. He saw her on her knees with her head resting on the bed, her hands touching his grandmother’s. She sobbed and cried, shaking on the floor. He hated seeing his mother look so devastated. He went over to her, and patted her back. She looked at him with tear filled eyes and hugged him.

“She’s in a better place, John,” She told him, her body shaking as she held him.

They stood there until his mother stopped crying and she stood up. She touched her mother’s cheek, a pained expression on her face that could only be described as grief and looked at John.

“Now’s the time to say goodbye,” Her voice choked on the last word.

John moved over to the bed and looked down at his grandmother. His sweet, wonderful, caring grandmother and he copied what his mother had done. He reached forward and touched his grandmother’s cheek.

She gasped a breath and opened her eyes looking over to John, whose eyes were wide. His mother yelled a horrified scream then moved John away from his grandmother.

“Mum,” She yelled, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

His grandmother turned to look at them confused.

“Anna,” She said affectionately and his mother let go of him and went to hug her.

“You scared me,” His mother said planting a kiss on his grandmother’s cheek.

“Give your grandma a hug, John,” His mother said.

He smiled at her and climbed onto the bed. He hugged her and as he got up he saw that she wasn’t moving again.

“Mum,” His mother said slowly, “Mum!”

She took her wrist and felt for a pulse that did not come. She turned to John, a look of horror on her face.

“Oh… no, no,” She said frantically. She grabbed John into a tight hug and rocked them back and forth. “I’m so sorry John. I’m so sorry.”

Later, his mother explained to him that his great grandfather used to have that same gift, the gift to bring the dead back to life just by his touch. That same touch could also bring them back to death. She told him never to use it for using it would bring death to another within a minute of bringing someone else back. He had the power of life and death.

She had used the word gift; all he could hear was curse.

The first time John had acknowledged his curse, he was fifteen.

His mother had been in a car accident and was in the hospital. It was a horrible three days, as they weren’t sure she would make it. But on the third day it was final. She passed away and a horrible, hideous thought entered his mind. He was going to bring her back to life. He was going to save her. He snuck into the room while his father spoke softly to the doctor in the waiting room, his little sister, just 9 years old, crying silently by his side.

He went to his mother’s bed side, and pulled down the medical sheet that lay over his mother’s face, tears streaming from his eyes, he touched her hand. She gasped and blinked back to life, turning to look at him with a soft smile on her lips, until she took in where she was and his expression. He knew she knew.

“No, John,” She told him, “I’m not meant to be here.”

“You can’t leave me,” He pleaded. He wanted to reach out and touch her but instead he moved far away.

“John,” She said beckoning him closer, reaching out to him, “John, I asked you never to use this. Please, I know it’s hard. I know you’re too young, and it breaks my heart,” She sobbed, “But I can’t let you do this. This is like murdering someone. If I stay here any longer, someone else will die.”

John shook his head, and went back against the wall, “Please,” He begged.

“This was never supposed to happen, I’m so sorry John. Please, John, remember what I told you.

John knew he shouldn’t do this. He knew it was wrong, and all the moral’s his mother had taught him were being broken right now. He knew his mother wouldn’t want to live with the guilt that her life had caused a death. But he wanted to be selfish. He wanted to keep her forever. He wanted, he wanted, but his mother was looking at him and he knew he couldn’t.

“The minute is almost up,” She said softly, calmly. So mother like, so nurturing, so caring, and John was going to lose her. He knew he would.

He went to her, her hand reaching for him. Before they touched, before he sent her back into darkness he said one last thing.

“I love you,”

She smiled a motherly smile, “I love you too, more than anything. You’ve made me so proud,” She said and wrapped her hand around his wrist. Her head fell to the pillow, the light out of her eyes. He cried at her bedside until his father dragged him out.

After his mother died, his father began drinking and his younger sister grew up in a house that was lacking the love and affection he had once grown up in. He was eighteen when he decided to join the army, and at the time it had seemed like a good idea. At the time it was the best idea he had, because his family didn’t have any money for college, and he couldn’t stand living at home any longer. It was a great idea during training. He had never formed such close bonds with anyone, never had such close friends in his life, and for a while he forgot about death, he forgot about his curse.

He remembered again when he was out on his first mission and his comrade was shot. John went back to help him and found he was already dead. His heart broke. He was his friend, his brother in arms, and he was lying dead in the desert sand of Afghanistan. He couldn’t leave him there, but he knew if they touched, he would come back to life, and John wasn’t sure he’d be able to touch him again if that happened. He wasn’t sure he could let him die. He took his friend onto his shoulder and carried him out. He heard him wake and ask a question that was cut off as they touched skin to skin again. John brought him out in tears. It wasn’t the last time he had to do that. It wasn’t the last time he had been forced to choose whether he should bring someone back or not. So many times he had been close to doing it, so many times he had come so close, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Then he was shot, and for the first time in his life he wondered if he himself could die. Could the person who controlled death and life die himself? He awoke in a hospital, alone and lost, and alive.

As hard as his life had been in Afghanistan with his curse, he had known that everyone there knew what they were getting themselves into. He told himself time after time as he saw fellow soldiers fall that it was a part of life, a part of their job, and though it hurt that he knew that he could bring back that one person, he couldn’t bring himself to end another’s life who was still fighting out in that field.

Now, here in a world where he knew no one, connected with no one, he was lost. He had known nothing for the majority of his adult life but war and camaraderie and now those were both lost. He had no job, no ambitions, and no guide. All he had now was a small bedsit, a small army pension, an alcoholic sister, a wounded shoulder, a busted leg, and his curse.

Many nights he’d find himself staring at his gun and wondering if he could die, what it was like to die, and if he would just come back. Something told him he wouldn’t, and though he didn’t have a reason to live he didn’t want to die.

He wandered around London, one warm autumn day and was stopped by an old friend who he used to go to school with. He was a bit chubbier then he had been, but he was one of the closet friends he’d had during those years. They had spoken, exchanged tales and by the end of it he was being directed to a potential flat mate.

John was not one easily amazed, what with his ability and all, but Sherlock Holmes amazed him beyond all else. He was smart, enigmatic, and overall amazing and John soon found himself moving in with the man who was so full of life when John, at the time, could be filled with so little.

John didn’t know why, didn’t understand it really, but after Sherlock had told John “potential flatmates should know the worst about each other” John found himself telling Sherlock what his worst was; His curse. He only told Sherlock really because Sherlock kept pestering him about why he was a vegetarian, and why he didn’t become a doctor even though John knew and studied it. So John told him.

“That’s impossible,” Sherlock said scoffing at him.

John sighed. He hadn’t told anyone about his gift in the army, for obvious reasons, and only a select few being his family and one close close friend he had lost at a young age knew. He knew this was the reaction that would be common if he ever did tell people and he was right.

“You wanted to know my worst trait, I’m telling you,” John said.

“You’re not crazy, so this must me a joke right. In my line of work that would come quite in handy, so you must be joking.”

“What do you mean that it would come quite in handy?” John asked perplexed. How could his curse ever come in handy?

“Well obviously,” Sherlock drawled, “I could speak to the victims and get some information out of them, maybe even get the culprit. But you’re joking, and I don’t care much for fantasies.”

“But I’m not joking,” John said. And it was the worst thing he could have possibly said because Sherlock then replied, “Prove it.”

 

They found their way to the morgue where Sherlock flirted his way into getting a cadaver.

John looked at it and told Sherlock, “This is why I didn’t go to medical school,” and touched the once dead man.

He sprung to life, sitting up in the metal bed, and taking in a gasping breath.

Sherlock stood back, his face in the shape of awe, horror, and absolute fascination. Molly, who had been standing next to them, fainted.

“Where am I,” The man said frantically. He looked ready to jump out of the metal bed.

John looked to Sherlock who was walking around the body, studying it, and every once in a while looking to John, trying to draw the conclusion of how John and this dead man talking were connected.

“I have to…” John trailed off, not sure how to word it. I have to kill him? Put him under? “Put him back as he was,” he cringed.

“Why?’ Sherlock said with the tilt of his head; Obvious curiosity in his words, his body language, his eyes.

“If he stays alive for more than a minute someone else dies,” John said touching the man’s arm and watching him collapse back against the metal with a clang, “Anyone in the nearest vicinity could die and that could be you or Molly.”

“Can you bring him back,” Sherlock asked, looking over the body again, lifting his arms, checking his eyes, checking his pulse.

John laughed, “No, onetime thing. One touch, life, another touch dead again, forever.”

“And this is why you’re a vegetarian,” Sherlock asked. He knew he’d draw the right conclusion.

“You… are fascinating, John,” Sherlock said, and his smile was nothing good, he smiled as if John was something to puzzle over, something to take apart, but John felt warm inside, and a little less lost.

*

 

For the first month of living together Sherlock would use every opportunity to ask John about his ability. He’d ask anything about it that came to mind, and for that first month, it was the only conversation they had with each other. The next month Sherlock seemed to run out of questions and started to run experiments. Sherlock was not very discreet about it. He’d bring home rotten fruit and ask John to make them ripe so he could examine them. John though reluctant agreed and watched as Sherlock started a timer just as his finger hit the fruit and brought it back to life. He wrote down how plump the fruit was, how juicy, how sweet, how fresh, and then he’d watch as the timer hit one minute. He’d see another fruit somewhere cast to the side, wither and die, and then he’d study that one. He kept doing this sporadically each time with a different fruit for two weeks, until he brought home two mice and John told him no.

“I won’t be an experiment,” John told him and went into his room, slamming the door.

An hour later Sherlock was knocking on his door asking to explain himself. When John opened it, Sherlock pushed his way inside and sat on the arm chair John had at the side of his bed, and gestured for John to sit across from him on the edge of his bed. John took the seat with the roll of his eyes and looked at Sherlock. Living with him for the past two months he had learned many of Sherlock’s quirks, and saw all the experiments he ran so he knew that he was just one of the many that Sherlock would focus on. He also knew that Sherlock would grow bored as he always did and move on.

“I know this looks bad,” Sherlock began and John snorted, “But I have a good reason.”

“A good reason to make me use my curse so you can study me,”

Sherlock looked at John in confusion as the word “curse” exited his mouth. He took in a breath of realization.

“That’s why,” He said, “that’s why you don’t want to use it, you think it’s a curse.”

“Of course it’s a curse,” John exclaimed.

Sherlock shook his head and gave John one of his, ‘you’re an idiot’ looks.

“Do you realize what you could do with your gift,” and for the first time in twenty years his ability was referred to as a gift. John still didn’t agree with the word, “How many victims of murder you could help, the murderers you could bring to justice, the new evidence you could bring to a crime just by speaking to the victim. You, John, work miracles.”

“It’s not a miracle, Sherlock, it is a freak of nature and it’s dangerous,” John defended himself. He was the one who had lived with this his whole life. He was the one who would be to blame if some innocent soul died because he couldn’t deal with his grief. He was the one who had to live with the fact that he let his closest loved ones die even when he could have brought them back. He was the one who had to learn to be selfless, when all he ever wanted to do was be selfish.

“You could help solve murders,” Sherlock said.

“I could harm an innocent person,” John retorted.

“That’s why I’m doing these experiments,” Sherlock said excitedly as if John had caught on to his crazy plan, “You told me that if you bring a fruit back, then another fruit dies. If it’s an animal then another animal will be affected. If it’s a human, then another human, well,” Sherlock said speaking frantically, “I want to test this; I’m going to run tests with you so that we can make sure that the person who died is the only one who dies.”

“No,” John said, shaking his head and moving away from Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock said, grabbing his hand, “You could stop murderers.”

“I-” John tried to move away. Sherlock pulled him back.

“You could save lives,” Sherlock said with such conviction that John believed him.

And just like that, John was a part of death again. In war he had been surrounded by it, and now, in his civilian life, he was seeking it out.

Sherlock started with the mice.

“They’re feeders, so it’s kind of their job to die,” Sherlock said with a shrug.

“I feel so much better,” John said sarcastically.

Sherlock took one of the mice and injected it with poisonous serum then placed him in a metal baking pan, one John recognized as the pan he used to make brownies. He glared at Sherlock. A glare Sherlock missed entirely.

The mouse passed quickly and Sherlock got the timer ready. Just as John’s finger touched the mouse, Sherlock hit the timer. The mouse got up slowly and began to inspect the metal baking pan. It scurried around as if it had not just been murdered and Sherlock wrote down notes that John could only assume said, "dead to alive," and he snorted a little at the thought causing Sherlock to look at him.

“What?” He asked.

John gestured to his notes, “Just, what are you writing?”

“How the mouse reacts, if it’s groggy, if it can move around,” He said stating off his notes.

“So not just, ‘dead‘, ‘Alive’,” John asked.

Sherlock looked up from his notes and said, “I wrote that as well,”

And John laughed while Sherlock smiled.

The timer buzzed off and as it did the other mouse fell to the ground.

“I don’t want to kill him,” John said gesturing to the one mouse that was still alive. “I don’t want to have two mice deaths on my hands”

“I don‘t understand your humanity, John,” Sherlock said laughing slightly, “We’re not keeping him.”

“Of course we’re not, I wouldn’t be able to take care of him anyways, seeing as my touch would kill him,”

“So what do we do,” Sherlock said watching the mouse run around the pan.

John smiled up at him, “Find him a home.”

The last he heard the mouse was living with Mrs. Hudson’s nephew and John wondered if he was the only one who had a little humanity.

*

The first time John brought a victim to life for Sherlock to ask questions to, it had gone terribly wrong, for Sherlock anyways. She had been poisoned and made to look as though she had committed suicide, and later, when John found that he could contribute himself by writing and not just by using his curse, he’d name it,  _A study in Pink_.

She had woken up screaming, and would not calm down. Sherlock then made it worse by telling her that she had been murdered and she then went into the sobbing fit. She kept telling them how horrible of a person she had been, that she had been cheating on her husband, which made Sherlock smile just slightly as he had already deduced that, and kept telling them, ignoring everything they asked, that she had plans that’d she’d never get to accomplish. At the five second mark, John touched her and let her drift back into darkness.

“You’ve been murdered?” John said incredulously, “Who tells someone that!”

“I was trying to be efficient,” he shrugged.

John laughed and laughed and laughed, and told Sherlock how horrible that was. Sherlock didn’t get any information out of her, but he did find her missing case, cured John’s limp, and found out that her phone had a GPS in it, which lead them to the murderer, and John thought that was still impressive, even if his interrogation skills with the dead were horrible.

The second time John brought a dead man to life for Sherlock, he had been the one to murder him. He didn’t understand why he didn’t feel any remorse. Maybe it was because he was a serial killer. Maybe it was because he had tried to kill Sherlock, whatever it was, he had no second thoughts when he pulled that trigger and saved Sherlock’s life.

Now, as they stood around the cold metal table after having snuck in to see him, Sherlock told John to bring the murderer back. When John had asked him why, Sherlock only said, "I have one last question."

When Jefferson Hope awoke he did not gasp as the others had, he did not babble about his life. He merely looked at Sherlock and smiled.

“I’m already dead, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

Jefferson nodded.

“Was I right?” Sherlock asked.

“Does it matter? You won,” Jeff replied, and Sherlock walked away and nodded to John giving him the okay to touch the cabbie once more and watched the light in his eyes fade out, knowing that this time, he controlled both deaths.

“That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it,” John said when he made it out into the hallway.

“What?” Sherlock played dumb.

“You risk your life to prove you’re clever,” John shook his head.

“And why would I do that?” Sherlock said arching his eyebrow.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

Sherlock frowned at him, then slowly, it turned into an uncontrollable smile. Sherlock stared at him; looking at him as a person instead of a puzzle for the first time. And John thought he could see Sherlock too, understand him that much more.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked.

“Starving,” and then, at that moment, when they had simple just been associates, flatmates, detectives, they became friends.

*

The first time John ever believed his curse could be a gift, was when he met Sherlock Holmes.

All his life, John had looked at his ability to bring back the dead as a curse, something to hate, and wish away. Nothing good ever came from it, and it only served to make death feel that much worse to him. He had seen death his entire life, some death worse than others, and he was left with the knowledge that he could defy it, but never did. That was, until he met Sherlock Holmes, the man who defied everything, and now, was using John to defy death; Using John’s ability to catch murderers, using John’s ability to save lives. John had helped save so many lives in the last few months. Finally his curse didn’t feel so much like a curse.

*

“We’ve got a case,” Sherlock said bouncing on John’s bed to wake him up.

John turned over and tried to hide himself in the blanket but his attempt was stopped when Sherlock yanked the blanket off of him.

“Sherlock, are you in your thirties or are you five?” John said with a groan as he finally admitted to himself that he was awake.

“What does the case have to do with my age,” Sherlock said, getting off of the bed.

“Not the case, you jumping on my bed,” John said sitting up, “There are better ways to wake me than to jump on my bed.”

“Less efficient ways,” Sherlock muttered.

John rubbed his hand over his face and slumped a bit. His clock showed the time to be 5:23 in the morning; Way to early to be up. But what was a scheduled sleep time when one lived and worked with Sherlock Holmes.

“What’s the case?” John asked.

“Bank break in,” Sherlock explained.

“How many dead?”

“None,”

John groaned, “And why do you need me?” no dead body, why did he need to be woken if nobody else did.

Sherlock smiled at John, a real genuine smile that seemed to be reserved only for John to see. “I’d be lost without my blogger.” he said then fled the room.

John didn’t know why but the fact that Sherlock wanted him to help on cases that his ability wasn’t needed made him happier than when his ability was. Sherlock wanted him there, wanted his company, even if he couldn’t contribute fully. He didn’t understand why, didn’t care really, he was just happy he was wanted. So he joined Sherlock.

*

When John first moved in with Sherlock, he had thought Sherlock was good looking, amazing, a genius, and crazy, but he could never have imagined thinking of this man as his best friend. Now, he couldn’t imagine his life without him. He couldn’t imagine his life without the cases, or the endless sleepless nights, or the lazy days where neither did anything, or the dinners out, or the dinners in, or the one man audience violin concerts, or Mrs. Hudson fussing over the both of them, or Sherlock looking at him like he was the most amazing person, or John looking back and feeling the exact same way for Sherlock. His life had been dull and colorless after the war, before Sherlock, he wasn’t sure how to call it anymore. Because before Sherlock, John had never felt like he belonged, now he couldn’t see himself in any other place.

Sherlock was his best friend and deep down, something ached in him, and slowly it grew until he knew what it was. Longing.

He didn’t just want Sherlock as his best friend; he wanted Sherlock, full stop.

He found himself staring at Sherlock’s lips and wondering if he’d always stared at them and hadn‘t noticed until now, or if this was something new. He wanted to kiss those lips, he wanted to taste them. But he knew he couldn’t; that he wasn’t allowed to. Because what would an amazing, great man, like Sherlock want with him.

And the answer was that he’d only want to use him. He’d never need John like John needed him, and Sherlock made it perfectly clear, and more than once, that he didn’t hold sentiment.

So, when Moriarty kidnapped John and made him pretend to be responsible for all the crimes Sherlock had been solving, John finally was able to see Sherlock’s true expression. Sherlock listened to him recite the words Moriarty had for him, and Sherlock looked heartbroken, betrayed, and then when he learned the truth, that mask of indifference was back, but John got to see him unmasked, and it was enough for John to wish he had seen it before, because now he was going to die.

“Run, Sherlock,” He screamed as he launched himself onto Moriarty.

“Good, very good,” Moriarty cooed, then he turned his head toward John and whispered in a sing song voice, “But I know your secret.”

“Shut up,” John said gripping him tighter.

“I’d like you to show me,” Moriarty grinned, his face turning back to Sherlock. John’s eyes followed as he saw a red dot on Sherlock’s forehead.

No, no, no, please no, anything but that. Don’t kill him. Don’t don’t don’t, his mind chanted.

He moved away from Moriarty, his hands in the air showing his surrender.

“I rather like your little pet, Sherlock,” Moriarty continued, “I think I’d like to keep him.”

“No,” Sherlock said stepping forward.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Moriarty tutted, “This is a warning Sherlock. You keep prying, and I will burn the heart out of you.”

“I’ve been reliably informed I do not have one,”

Moriarty laughed, “We both know that’s not true.”

And Sherlock’s eyes went to John.

“Enjoy him while you can, John,” Moriarty said as he began walking away. He snapped his fingers and he was gone and so were the red dots.

Sherlock rushed over to John and ripped the vest from him, throwing it as far from them as he was able. All the adrenaline John had coursing through his veins seemed to vanish and his legs felt shaky.

“We have to get out,” Sherlock said frantically. He looked as if he knew something John didn't. 

John nodded, but his legs didn’t want to comply. Sherlock grabbed him and started to pull him out of the building. When they made it out, a black car was waiting for them. Sherlock got in, helped John, and shut the door, the driver taking off as soon as it clicked shut.

“John,” Sherlock said, “John are you alright.”

John sat up and nodded, “Yes, I’m fine, Sherlock, I’m fine.”

Sherlock nodded and seemed to have such pent up energy that he was unable to expel. He kept looking back out the windows, his legs shaking up and down.

“That thing, that you-uhm- did, that was, good,” He said. John nodded in understanding.

“I love you,” He blurted out. He’d wanted to explain why he’d done it, that Sherlock was his best friend and of course he would sacrifice himself for him, and of course Sherlock didn’t know how to thank John properly but he was Sherlock and John was John and he didn’t mean to say that out lout. At least not yet, but he guessed it was as good of an explanation as any.

Sherlock stared at him in shock and didn’t move. After five seconds of silence John moved closer in concern.

“Sherlock,” He said and received no reply but Sherlock’s stare.

“Okay now that’s getting a bit scary,” John said and was moving to tell the driver to take them to the hospital when Sherlock grabbed him back and pressed a ferocious kiss on his lips.

John couldn’t help it, he moaned. He’d dreamed a lot about this kiss, imagined it many times, but none of those fantasies could add up to how wonderful reality was. He kissed back, parting his lips for further intrusion, and he heard Sherlock moan. They kissed and kissed until they were cut off by the door swinging open and Sherlock’s brother staring down at them with contempt.

“Your flat is safe, we have security there,” Mycroft said and John could have sworn he was rolling his eyes, “Now please stop contaminating my car.”

John and Sherlock got out quickly, John muttering a small apology that was completely ignored. Sherlock pushed him up the stairs and into the flat where he pinned him to the door and kissed him until they were panting and rutting against each other.

“Bed,” John said and Sherlock grabbed John’s hips and pulled him toward his bedroom. His hands moving to John’s belt pulling it off and they went back to kissing again.

They divested each other of clothing and fell onto the bed, Sherlock under John, his legs spread and John falling between them. They kissed while their hips moved together, their cocks lined up and rubbing against each other, eliciting moans from both men. John’s mouth fell open and he dragged his lips across Sherlock’s jaw then planted kisses on his neck. He trailed kisses to Sherlock’s ear and took the earlobe between his teeth.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” John whispered, his voice low and husky, “You don’t know how tempting you’ve been.”

Sherlock moaned and hitched his hips up higher, searching for more contact.

“I was waiting for you to -ah, yes, - waiting for you to do something,” Sherlock admitted, “I thought you were - were going to make the first move! Do that again!" Sherlock practically yelled as John rolled his hips a certain way. John did it again and Sherlock let out a wonderful shout of pleasure. John would have never known Sherlock was loud in bed. John did it again and Sherlock was shaking beneath him, squirming, and rutting, and moaning the most wonderful sounds.

“John, John, John,” He chanted and then he arched up and let out a loud, “John!” before his orgasm took him. His back arched, and his head went back exposing his neck and John pushed his hips harder until he too was coming. He groaned and fell against Sherlock’s body.

“You wanted me to make a move?” John asked, his head resting in the curve of Sherlock’s neck.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, his voice drifting off, “I didn’t know how you would respond if I did so I waited.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” John said lifting his head to look at Sherlock.

“Of course I wanted you to,” Sherlock said annoyed, “I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you, John.”

“I love you,” John said again and placed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. He didn’t expect Sherlock to say it back, and he didn’t, but being able to have Sherlock, hold him, touch him, like this, was worth it.

*

The Irene Adler case was by far John’s least favorite. He wished he could say it was because he wasn’t helpful, but it was because he was filled with so much jealously. Irene was beautiful and smart and she captured Sherlock’s attention in ways John was never capable of. She was also manipulative and corrupt in a way that John hoped Sherlock never would be.

When she was found dead during the holiday’s John felt a weird rush of relief for a second, before he saw that Sherlock was grieving. He felt angry, and didn’t know why, but he thought he could at least offer one thing for the man he loved.

“Would you like to say goodbye,” John offered.

“Why would I want to do that?” Sherlock said, his eyes furrowing in confusion.

“Because… you - you’re grieving, and you didn’t get to say goodbye,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head and moved away from John.

“You think I loved her,” Sherlock accused.

“Didn’t you,” John didn’t deny that that was what he thought, not if Sherlock could see it anyways.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “She was interesting, a puzzle to put together. I didn’t love her.”

“But aren’t I just a puzzle too?” John said, and walked away. He went to his own bedroom for the first time in two months and fell into his cold bed.

He was there, twisting and turning, trying to find sleep for more than an hour before Sherlock came up and climbed into bed with him. He pressed his body to John’s back and pulled him in until they were spooning. He kissed the back of John’s neck and nuzzled against him.

“You’re not just a puzzle,”

“But you’re not denying that I am. You won’t just get tired of me and push me away like all the other puzzles you solve?” John said angrily. He couldn’t help it.

Irene had known Sherlock for such a short time, and she had grabbed his attention faster and better than any other person or case ever had. She still had his attention, even now, and she was dead.

“You’re my friend, and my life is so much better now that I know you,” Sherlock explained. His arms tightening around John’s body, “And I will never tire of you.”

John let the tension fall from his body. He pressed back against Sherlock more and Sherlock scooted even closer, his leg wrapping around John’s hip.

After a few minutes of silence, where John thought Sherlock might have fallen asleep he asked, “do you want to say goodbye?”

“No need,” Sherlock said, “She’s not really dead, just pretending. I was just trying to figure out why.”

Later, when the case was solved, and Irene used Sherlock to her advantage that also ended up backfiring on her, John would wondered if Sherlock was lying when he said he didn’t love her, because to him, Sherlock tried really hard to impress her. He knew though, that at the end of it, he despised her. At least he thought he did. Or maybe he just lost interest because her puzzle was solved. Either way, John no longer felt jealous of her, because Sherlock was his in the end no matter what. Irene had grabbed Sherlock's attention, but John had earned his sentiment. 

*

John had never had happiness like he had with Sherlock. They complimented each other in the best ways, as if they were made for each other. They both thrived during the cases; It was something that they had that had first brought them together, and now it kept them close. They both brought out the best in each other, like John’s compassion and Sherlock’s intelligence. They were a team, unstoppable and immovable.

The sex was just the cherry on top of everything else. Some days it was fast and hard and rough and loud, other days it was slow and emotional and loving and amazing. And nothing was better than kissing Sherlock. Sherlock kissed with everything he had, he kissed John and John could feel how wanted he was each time. Sherlock also had roaming hands that touched everything, felt everything and John loved Sherlock’s touch.

Sherlock was the first man John had ever been with, so when the topic of Sherlock entering John came up, John was a bit reluctant. John had already been inside Sherlock multiple times, but each time Sherlock asked if he could fuck John, John had shyly declined and Sherlock would be polite and tell him it was okay.

So that first time, was very special, at least to John. That first time was John giving himself over completely to Sherlock. Sherlock had already had him, and now he’d have everything. This was John giving complete control to Sherlock in a part of their lives that John had mainly been the controller of.

It happened during Baskerville, after that first night at the moor, when Sherlock told John that he didn’t have friend. At first John had been furious, betrayed, sad, but then he remembered that Sherlock was scared. His mind was playing tricks on him, and the one part of Sherlock that Sherlock thought he had complete control over was malfunctioning.

John stood up and grabbed Sherlock’s hand pulling him up.

“Come to bed,” He said.

“I’m not tired,” Sherlock sneered.

“I’m not planning on sleeping,” John said and Sherlock looked up, finally understanding what John was doing.

They made it up to the room where John kissed Sherlock slowly. Everything was slow and intimate, and their clothes found a home on the floor. Sherlock laid over John, kissing him and feeling around him to make sure that he was truly there, just a reminder.

Sherlock kissed down John’s body and looked up at him, the question lingering on his tongue.

“Yes,” John said before Sherlock could even say it.

Sherlock crawled back up his body and kissed him, “are you sure.”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John whispered.

Sherlock kissed him hard, eliciting a moan from them both, then he got up from the bed and rummaged through his bad for the lube. He came up triumphant and went back to the bed where he kissed John again.

Sherlock kissed down John’s body then took John’s cock into his mouth. John gasped ad bite his lip. He hadn’t expected the contact, that warm, wet, heat, Sherlock’s mouth always felt amazing. Then he dropped his mouth down, lifting John’s leg above his shoulder.

“Sher- ah,” John panted as Sherlock licked at John’s entrance.

His tongue licked around, and then he pressed his lips against his hole. John let out a loud moan, and rolled his hips toward Sherlock. This had no right to feel this good, but it did, and John thought he could come from this alone. Sherlock pushed his tongue inside and John let out a yelp.

“Sherlock, what- what,” He whimpered unable to finish the thought as Sherlock's tongue moved in and out.

Sherlock moved back and grabbed the bottle of lube, coating his fingers. He kissed John’s knee as he rubbed at John’s entrance with his fingers, until one pushed in. He moved it in and out then hooked his finger and John saw stars.

“This is exactly what I needed,” Sherlock said, “You’re exactly what I need.”

John pushed down against his finger for more but Sherlock withdrew his finger. John whimpered, missing the contact.

Sherlock placed his fingers back and reentered with two fingers this time. He kept stretching John with his fingers, making John beg, and grind, until he took his fingers out and grabbed the lube again. He coated his cock, and John’s hole, generously, then positioned himself until he was pressing in. John bore down and Sherlock pushed in, and soon he was completely seated inside John. Their eyes locked on one another.

Sherlock leaned down and captured John’s lips in his own, for a slow, meaningful kiss.

They broke apart and John placed his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb brushing along his cheek bone.

“This is real,” John said, and Sherlock thrust.

They got into a steady rhythm, a slow burn as Sherlock rolled his hips teasingly. His cock brushing against John’s prostate until he felt euphoric. It felt like nothing John had ever felt before and he loved it. He didn’t know why he’d never done this before, why he was so reluctant to try it. Not only did it feel amazing to have Sherlock thrust inside him, but it felt intimate, like he had never been so close to Sherlock before.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hips and pulled them closer.

“Harder,” John gasped. 

Sherlock’s hips pulled back and he thrust into John harder and at just the right angle. John moaned and Sherlock did it again and again. John was close but he couldn’t- he just needed- he reached down and grabbed his cock, pumping it fast. Sherlock started moving erratically, his composure lost. The bed frame banging against the wall. Sherlock was always loud in bed, and the noises he made as he pushed in and out of John couldn’t be mistaken. Anyone who heard would know Sherlock was having sex, and having sex with one individual named John. John got off on Sherlock’s moans and yelling his name and at the moment he was being stimulated more than he’d ever been before.

John came, clenching around Sherlock, sighing out his name, and shaking beneath him. Sherlock wasn’t far behind and for the first time, Sherlock came inside John.

Sherlock pulled out and collapsed next to John, sated and happy. He looked over with a blissful smile and pulled John closer to kiss him.

“You are perfect,” Sherlock said, “And I don’t have friends.” He said. John frowned, pulling away from Sherlock. He didn’t want to hear that. He thought it was just the fear talking but he guessed not. Sherlock pulled him back and forced him to look at him.

“I’ve just got you,” Sherlock said, and he smiled at John that smile reserved just for him.

John was happy, sated, relaxed, and he thought his life could never get better.

*

The first time John thought of his ability as both a gift and a curse, was the day Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building.

“Please Sherlock, don’t do this,” John begged, “Please. I won’t let you leave me! I’ll bring you back!”

He heard Sherlock snuffle as if he were crying. Then he said. “I’m counting on it,” and jumped off the roof. No ‘goodbye‘, no ‘I’m sorry‘, he just jumped.

John ran over to him and was held back by a pedestrian.

“Please I need to see touch him, he’s my friend,” He cried.

A man, John didn’t know who he was, stood in front of him.

“Not here,” He told him and John somehow understood.

In the morgue of St. Bart’s, John identified Sherlock’s body; his corpse. And Molly nodded at him, and walked away, hopefully far, far away.

John looked over Sherlock’s body, his lover, his best friend, his everything, and decided he’d do for Sherlock what he’d never done for anyone else. He was going to save Sherlock, because if there was any time to be selfish it was for the love of his life.

He reached out, touched Sherlock’s cheek. The last time he’d ever touch Sherlock and then he moved far away.

Sherlock shot up from the metal table and looked directly at John.

“I know you’re probably angry,” Sherlock said, “But I did it because Moriarty would have killed you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn’t kill myself.”

John nodded.

“I did it because I can’t live without you, John,” Sherlock said frantically, as if John’s silence scared him more than any words John could use, “I can’t bring you back like you can for me, and I know I’ve only got a minute. But this is me saying goodbye. This is me telling you, you matter the most.”

John turned away, tears falling from his eyes. Because Sherlock expected John to touch him again, to send him back into that endless slumber and John couldn’t do that.

“Not goodbye,” John whispered.

“But you said,”

“I can’t,” John told him, “For the same reason you jumped off the roof for me. I can’t let you die.”

Sherlock watched him and he nodded, a sort of pain crossing his face and it could only be described as grief, because now, Sherlock and John could never touch. They could never make love, or kiss, and that knowledge spread across Sherlock’s face, just as it was on John’s.

“Someone will die,” Sherlock told him in a low voice.

“Please don’t tell me who,” John said, and there was the sound of someone dropping to the floor. .

“Don’t be mad at me, John,” Sherlock whispered, “I did what I had to, to keep you alive.”

“And I did the same for you.”

*

There is something truly horrific about being able to have the one thing you want the most, just for a tiny bi,t and then have it ripped away from you. John had Sherlock, and now he could only see what he once had. He could no longer have it, no longer touch it, no longer kiss him, or hug him, or make love to him. He was doomed by a curse to watch the only person he ever wanted and know that that person wanted him too. There were so many times that they would look at one another, and know that they were imagining walking across the room and kissing the other. So many times that they walked distances apart and wished that they could be brushing against each other.

It was painful and horrible, but nothing was worse than the other not being there. So they both lived in limbo, where they both craved the other, but had to live the consequence of each other’s life. You cannot barter with death unless you pay a price, and John now knew, without a doubt, that he was paying it.

*

John craved Sherlock's touch so much some days that it physically ached. He was so close, he was right there, but there were inches, feet, miles between them, and he could never touch. It stung the tips of his fingers when they reach out into empty air and found no contact. He griped anything he could and pretended it was Sherlock.

He wondered if Sherlock felt the same. If he was burning up slowly and craving for John’s touch that he would never receive. He wondered if Sherlock dreamed about the days where they used to touch and feel and rub and kiss. The days that were happy and complete. It was not that John was not happy now, he would give up Sherlock’s touch for Sherlock’s life any day, but it was that he was left with a longing that could never be satisfied, no matter what.

One day when John was lying in his bed, remembering when he and Sherlock had touched, Sherlock walked in, naked but for a white sheet. He sat in the arm chair next to the bed and stared at John, and John didn’t feel like hiding his arousal from him.

“Do you imagine me touching you?” Sherlock asked.

“Always,” John replied. And it was not just sex; it was normal everyday touches that he imagined. He imagined holding Sherlock’s hand, brushing his hand through Sherlock’s hair, patting Sherlock’s shoulder, lying next to him while he slept, hugging him, kissing him. Hell he’d shake his hand if he could have skin to skin contact. He wanted to feel him.

“Can I watch?”

John nodded and slowly lowered the blanket that had been covering his naked lower half. His hand was around the base of his cock. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock, who was watching him with an intensity that John didn’t know he missed, and now craved to see up close, so close that their noses brushed against one another, but instead he had to deal with the distance. He watched as Sherlock dropped the sheet and showed that he was just as affected by their distance as John was, that he craved as much as John did. He copied the motion of John’s hand that was moving up and down on his member slowly. He bit his lip and moaned, his eyes fluttering shut before flying open and watching John through lust filled eyes.

“Tell me what you’d do if you could touch me,” Sherlock said.

John gasped, there were so many things he would do. So many things he wished he could do, craved doing.

“First I’d kiss you,” John started and Sherlock moaned.

“I think about you kissing me all the time,” Sherlock admitted, “I miss it.”

It hurt John to hear this, and if he weren’t so aroused, weren’t so needy to have release next to, if not with, Sherlock, then he might have wept. Because he wanted to kiss Sherlock so badly, but he couldn‘t, and knowing Sherlock wanted to too was killing him. So now, he wanted to hug him and keep him in an embrace to comfort him, but he couldn’t do that either and it was tearing away at him.

“Tell me more,” Sherlock moaned, his hands still copying John’s motions which had sped up.

“I’d kiss you until we were both breathless, until we were on the verge of passing out, and then I’d kiss down your neck, I’d suck bruises there while you moved beneath me. I’d kiss your chest and suck on your nipples while you begged me for more contact. I’d kiss every inch of you, every part of you I would taste with my lips, rub with my hands, no part would be a secret.” He said, as his hips started to thrust up into his hand. He never looked away from Sherlock. He watched as each word affected him as much as it did himself, and he wondered if this was a good idea. If this would help his craving or make it that much worse. Either way, Sherlock was currently moaning next to him, hips moving up and down in search of something to push into. His lips caught between his teeth, and his hand pumping his cock.

“More, more,” Sherlock groaned, a whimper escaping his lips, mouth falling open.

“I’d take you in my mouth, and suck you. I’d let my tongue move around you while I hallowed my cheeks. I’d take you deep into my mouth, as far as I could go and swallow around you, I’d let you come down my throat, I’d let you fuck my mouth. And while I sucked you off, my hands would be massaging your balls, and rubbing your nipples. I’d stimulate everything, I’d- oh fuck- I’m too close,” John cried. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, the pleasure was too much, too good, and the sight of Sherlock panting, and rocking back and forth in the chair next to his bed was enough to get him off without the added image of himself doing those things to Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, “John I’m going to.. to,” His eyes squeezed shut, his balls drawing up. He pumped his hand faster and John couldn’t help it, he wanted Sherlock to come to his words, to his images.

“I’d let you fuck me,” John practically screamed in pleasure and Sherlock gasped, mouth open, eyes closed, he started to come, his ejaculation flying onto his stomach. He whimpered through his orgasm, John’s name chanting on his lips.

“I want you to fuck me,” John whispered as he finally let go and followed Sherlock into oblivion.

They fell limp into their respective spots, and where there should have been relieved smiles and sated expressions there were frowns. Because it wasn’t just about sex. They craved sex because they craved touch. They looked at each other with pained expressions instead of blissful ones because even after they reached orgasm they could not lie next to each other. They could not kiss lazily, or cuddle until they fell asleep. Instead they could sit feet apart from each other, and wish that that distance was not there.

“Tell me what you’d do?” John whispered, his eyes tearing, but he hid it. He couldn’t be weak now.

“I’d kiss you until we were both too tired to kiss anymore,” Sherlock said, his voice hitching, “Then I’d hold you while we slept, and when we woke up, I wouldn’t let you go.”

John smiled sadly and went to the edge of the bed as close to Sherlock as he could get. They stared at each other, each wishing they could just reach out, hold hands, anything.

“Are we torturing ourselves?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered.

“If you… If you want, I can lea-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said right away, “I don’t want you to leave. I hate that we can’t touch, but I love you.”

John sat up. Of all the times Sherlock was going to tell him this, why now, why now when he wanted so badly to touch him.

“Don’t act like that John. You knew this already,” Sherlock said annoyed.

John smiled, of course Sherlock wouldn’t think of it as a declaration, something to be cherished, it was just a fact, nothing more, “I love you, too. More than anything.”

They smiled at each other for a while, just looking, just imagining how they would touch.

“I’ll figure something out,” Sherlock said.

John looked at him confused, “What do you mean?”

“I’ll make a suit or something so that we can touch but not skin to skin. We can at least hold hands if we both wear gloves and long sleeves,” Sherlock said retrieving back into his mind for anything, “We’ll figure it out,” He said and then, “Just don’t leave me.”

 

*

It started with constant long sleeves and long gloves that went all the way to the elbow. It didn’t matter if it was a warm day or a cold day. For John and Sherlock it was always a long sleeve and long gloves day. When they sat on the couch side by side, they’d hold hands, and it was better than nothing. Walking down the street, sitting in a cab, sitting across from each other at a restaurant, they would hold hands, and pretend that they could feel that skin to skin contact that they truly craved.

The next idea Sherlock had was a little better, just slightly. John came home from the grocery store and as he crossed the threshold Sherlock told him to stand against the wall. John did so as Sherlock walked up to him and dropped to his knees.

“Sherlock,” John said frantically.

“Put your hands behind your head, don’t move,” Sherlock said and John complied.

Sherlock leaned forward placed his head against John’s stomach, nuzzling against him, his hands wrapped around John’s thighs.

“Is it weird I miss your stomach,” Sherlock asked looking up at John while his cheek was still resting on John’s stomach.

“Not at all,” John said, smiling, “Is it my turn yet?”

Sherlock went back to nuzzling his head against John’s jumper clad belly and muttered a no.

They found themselves having daily sessions of head and belly rubs. It was better, just a little better.

The next idea Sherlock had came while John was baking. John didn’t know what brought it on; maybe it was because they both always wanted to do it, but Sherlock was looking at John in a way that made John feel as if he was going to be smothered in kisses.

John finished with the cake batter and asked if Sherlock wanted to lick the spoon, like he always did, and instead, Sherlock grabbed the plastic wrap, pulled out a long sheet and brought it John’s face, kissing him through the plastic. John held his breathe and held his hands away from Sherlock, but his eyes fell shut, and even if he couldn’t taste Sherlock, he could feel the heat coming off of his lips. Sherlock pulled back, taking the plastic sheet with him and smiled.

“I’m so glad that worked,” Sherlock said.

John smiled back, a warmth spreading through his chest.

“That was dangerous,” John said.

“And you love danger,” Sherlock grabbed the cake batter filled spoon and licked it, walking away into the living room with a smug smirk.

It was slowly getting better. John still craved to have Sherlock under him. Craved to be inside Sherlock, have Sherlock inside him. But he could live with this, because life without Sherlock was not a life John wanted to live. With Sherlock, John belonged.

*

John had never liked bees, he’d always thought of them as vermin that were set out to sting you. But now, in his old age, retired and covered from head to toe in a bee keeper’s suit, he saw the appeal. In this suit he and Sherlock could grab and touch and play without the fear of making skin to skin contact. And John’s favorite thing to do, was hug Sherlock while making eye contact. Most of all, he loved Sherlock. He’d paid the price for Sherlock’s life and he’d do it again every time.

The last time he used his gift, was when he and Sherlock retired.


End file.
